wake up, rod

MARKET IN COMFORT i. ow di bodi Di bodi ain't mine, it's spore splayed in a jar of suspensory goo. It's filth & airless here, no tug to toke at, no want to want after. I'm asking for a film to coat me in your cells exact cilia, feel how your touch means like stick left over from bandaid, neon white after pinch. The body isn't well & won't ask. ii. pin hip, or, absolve me to the kingdom of coma It shouldn't be seen rat-eye beading salt licks as water; it shouldn't be seen & along the way to grandma's you become Grandma yourself, a partition of cookies & slack-jaw noon naps. Signature aftermath stop the distillatory push, stop the hoard of butterfly clips, spit lances, bandages blown in glass to order. You are laying jokes thick as magmad sweet pie, an attempt to rit. the convulsive pin stick dynamo. iii. jar The tire snapped his skull in a flash of pepsi crush. Every bottle in the world being redeemed at once. A loud crowd of pai...

never take on a new color they are remiss cells. You love me because I let you predict me. My crisis is mechanical, a few dead pixels can be ignored, the viewing experience preserved at just-below optimal comfort. The first thing you learn about love is amnesia, a convenient forgetting expunges the heart and clears the palette. Aside from a dim red spot from another time I'm almost whole enough to want.

Jon's poem ("HIDE YOUR LIGHT UNDER A BUSHEL") has sparked an idea for an assignment. It's simple. Write your discomfort. That's it. -B.

this seemed like the right place for it. HIDE YOUR LIGHT UNDER A BUSHEL Who represents my body in the Pentagon? Who represents my body, site-of-conflict and all? Who stands before the junta in my body poncho, gut trembling, gender flitting on and off like LEDs ground under-kid-foot? My body is not a thing to be unconditional about. Who represents my body in American Apparel? Who is my everlasting light? Who will save my body in the pool-side reckoning? Who will save the squeezed, gold-bodystocking’d me from over-exposure? When this shit grinds to a halt, who will be my body’s advocate? When my gender dissolves into panic and chaos, who will write my emergency legislation? Who will stand over my maleness as it drips apart, limestone floater in a champagne flute of saline? Who will stop my body from begging the paycheck, one white buttock at a time? When will our salvation come? What thick-thighed angels sputter...